


she’s not a saint and she’s not what you think

by luminoussbeings



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Post-Canon, Repression, nancy homophobic gay queen!, robin Knows Things, well more like rivals tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminoussbeings/pseuds/luminoussbeings
Summary: Something bitter flares in Nancy. Nowreallyisn’t the time, but she can’t help herself—“I’m sorry,whoare you?” she bites out rudely.The girl meets her eyes for the first time, unfazed. “I’m Robin,” she says.or: something about Robin sets Nancy on edge.
Relationships: (past), Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 13
Kudos: 109





	she’s not a saint and she’s not what you think

The car’s barely stopped screeching across the linoleum when Nancy shoots her head up over the balcony, desperately scanning the mall below. The gunmen are nowhere in sight—flattened, she hopes, thanks to El’s ministrations—but she can’t find Dustin anywhere. Fear lurches in her gut, sickly and cold. El was _certain_ he’d be here—God, if they were too late—

She remembers his eyes lighting up when she’d danced with him at the Snowball, the ridiculous poof of his hair making him almost as tall as her. How serious he’d taken the whole thing, how they all had, Mike and Lucas too—still just kids, playacting as teens.

And now here she is, just a kid—teen—playacting at being a hero. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest. What had she expected? She couldn’t even keep her best friend alive, much less—

“DUSTIN!” Mike yells from her left, arms waving wildly. Nancy’s breath catches, eyes snapping immediately back to the wreckage. _There._ Relief surges through her as the kid’s curly mop pokes over the counter. _Safe_. She drinks in a deep breath, willing the image of Barb away from her eyelids. It’s not the same. It’s not the same. _Safe_.

Her initial relief turns to confusion when Dustin’s appearance is followed closely by a teenage girl Nancy doesn’t recognize, Lucas’s little sister (?) and—her heart gives a traitorous little swoop, the way it always does when she runs into her ex—Steve Harrington.

Something touches her elbow. She jumps, adrenaline shooting quick through her blood, but it’s just Jonathan. “Nance. Let’s go,” he nods toward the kids, already scrambling over each other in haste to get to the escalators.

“Right,” she says, but shrugs off his touch, ignoring the way he draws back in hurt surprise. She doesn’t have time for this.

At the ground floor, the kids have formed a joyful, albeit chaotic and _loud_ —too loud, Nancy thinks, eyes darting nervously—circle of high fives and exclamations.

“You flung that thing like a matchbox!” Dustin whoops, enveloping his friends in a hug as Lucas and Erica mutually demand answers about each other’s presence, while Steve— _shit_ , Steve looks like _hell_.

A near patriotic spackle of red and blue mars his face, the whites of his eyes tinged pink. _Jesus._ Whoever they were up against certainly did a number on him—Nancy hasn’t seen him _this_ bloodied since—her gut twinges uncomfortably.

Since Jonathan gave him that beat down in the alley.

“I still don’t understand what happened with the car,” the girl murmurs to Steve, leaning close to him. Steve reaches out automatically to steady her, hands grazing her waist like he’s done it a thousand times.

Something bitter flares in Nancy. Now _really_ isn’t the time, but she can’t help herself—“I’m sorry, _who_ are you?” she bites out rudely.

The girl meets her eyes for the first time, unfazed. “I’m Robin,” she says, and Nancy notices a bright spatter of freckles across her nose, the pink cupid’s bow of her mouth slightly bloodied. _Shit_. Even beat up, the girl’s pretty.

“I work with Steve...?” the girl—Robin—continues, finally trailing off with an uncertain glance at Steve as Nancy realizes she’s glaring. Embarrassed, she quickly smooths her features back to neutral.

“She cracked the top secret code!” Dustin pipes up, gazing at Robin with unhidden adoration. Nancy smiles thinly. (Really? Even _Dustin’s_ replaced her?)

“Yeah, she’s the whole reason we know about the evil Russians in the first place,” Steve says proudly, and _wait—_

“Evil _Russians_?” Jonathan repeats. “Hold on, _what—_ ”

The group launches into an overlapping and often contradictory explanation. Nancy listens, but only half so—right now, she doesn’t really care who or why they’re fighting, so long as they all make it out alive.

That, and the fact that the other half of her attention is firmly focused elsewhere.

She _knows_ this is the absolute worst time to be thinking about any of this. She’s almost died six times today, evil Russians or slimy hellbeasts could still attack at any moment, and her boyfriend is literally _standing right next to her_. But. Even so, she can’t help sneaking glances at Steve. At Robin. At the bare _inches_ of space between them, waxing and waning as they fall into a rhythm of playful bickering and finishing each other’s sentences. There’s a casual intimacy to their interactions that makes Nancy feel almost like a stranger, like a voyeur witnessing something private. Jesus, what _happened_ last night?

Last she’d seen Steve, he was still fully and obviously heartbroken over her. And it’s not like that made her happy—she’s not a complete selfish bitch, contrary to what some of her classmates might think—and it’s not like she was proud of the way she acted last year. But Nancy’s only human, and— _shit,_ okay, sometimes it feels nice to know you’re wanted.

Now, Steve barely spares her a second glance. And despite everything, despite the danger, and the blood, and their probably imminent demise, he seems...happy.

And this time, he doesn’t have Nancy to thank for that.

***

The engine revs. Nancy’s muscles freeze, an insane laugh bubbling up from her chest. After all this time, after everything she’s done to stay alive—traveling to nightmarish dimensions and firing shotguns and clobbering her boss with a fire extinguisher—turns out, none of it mattered. She’ll be dead within the minute.

Billy’s going to kill her. Billy, or that thing inside him—the Mind Flayer, or whatever the hell they’re calling it—is going to ram his car into her body until it splits, cracks, breaks; bones crushed and sticky on the pavement, a particularly unsightly piece of roadkill for the mallgoers to swerve in the morning.

And when he’s finished with her, he’ll move on to the others.

She knows all this, sees it play out in her mind’s eye, and yet she can’t summon any will to run. What’s the use? She’s exhausted, suddenly, by the incessant battles, the constant chase for just a few more moments of life. If she dies now, or in two minutes, or two hours—who cares? There’s no escaping it. _If it be now, tis not to come,_ she thinks wildly, a line from a Shakespeare play she’d only pretended to doze through shaking loose from somewhere in her brain, _if it be not to come, it will be now_.

The engine’s staccato smooths into an unbroken roar. Billy’s eyes glint, knuckles whitening as he presses forward.

_It will be now._

She lifts her chin. She is so, so very tired.

The car is meters away from crushing her chest when something flickers in the corner of her vision. Involuntarily, her eyes track the movement, drawing a gasp even in her hazy state. Another car. It hurtles from out of nowhere, a yellow bullet speeding toward Billy. A second later there’s a thunderous crash and a horrifying scrape of metal, and then the yellow car spins out to a stop while Billy’s crunches and careens through the parking lot.

Away from Nancy.

She blinks. The appropriate reaction in this situation would be to look relieved. And that’s what she does, a few moments later, when she’s recovered enough of her wits to pull it together.

But during those few precious moments where the mask slipped—she could feel something almost like disappointment cross her face.

The yellow car honks, door thrown open. “C’mon, get in, let’s go, let’s get out of here!” Steve yells—because of course it’s Steve—nodding at Nancy and then immediately looking past her, gaze raking over the kids Nancy had momentarily forgotten about in her moment of capitulation. Guilt floods her, and she looks down, biting her lip.

When she looks back up, her eyes meet Robin’s.

Nancy expects the girl to drop her gaze when she realizes Nancy’s noticed, but she doesn’t, instead continuing to stare intently at Nancy before giving a slight nod that Nancy doesn’t return.

Despite the heat, Nancy shivers. She feels naked. Bald. She gets the feeling Robin doesn’t miss much—and that whatever episode she just had, Robin saw it all.

***

Time passes quickly after that night, and Nancy finds herself continuously surprised by the unrelenting march of the calendar. Without the structure of her job—apparently losing the paper’s top editors still wasn’t enough to get her rehired—days become foggy and indistinct, endless iterations of hanging out with Jonathan and swimming with her mom and driving Mike to see Eleven.

And, of course, doing everything she can to avoid Steve and Robin.

The events of _that night_ still loom unimaginably large in her mind. Sometimes the memories are so real they’re almost palpable, pressing like hot breath on her neck. Surely it’s only been a few days, she’ll think, and then realize it’s nearly August.

As much as she might wish otherwise, time isn’t stopping. And neither is Hawkins.

Already _Rebuild the Mall_ and _Save Starcourt!_ committees and petitions have sprung up in the wake of the destruction, buoyed by bake sales and door-to-door campaigns. Nancy doesn’t even bother answering the knocks. As if the _mall_ were the true tragedy of that night.

She knows it’s not the people’s fault they’re in the dark—hell, she’s even helped to mislead them. But still, Nancy has to swallow down a burst of anger as the well meaning minister goes on about the _gas leak_ at Chief Hopper’s memorial service. She watches Eleven’s throat tighten and knows she’s doing the same.

Anger is easier than grief; that’s a lesson girls like them learn the hard way.

***

The Byer’s house sells on its first showing. “Such a lovely home,” the young couple gushes, city accents marking them as part of the continuing flight to the suburbs, “such _character_.”

Joyce smiles and nods like a bobblehead. Silently, Nancy inches her foot to cover a stray gunshot mark in the floor. The couple blathers on, oblivious, and Jonathan slips his hand in Nancy’s.

She pretends her first instinct isn’t to squirm away.

The house empties quickly after that, days passing in a blur of boxes and donation drop offs. Joyce is surprisingly unsentimental about their belongings—“a fresh start” becomes her favorite catch phrase, but no amount of cheerful maxims can make her smiles any less watery.

Soon the last box slides into the back of the moving truck. “I guess that’s everything,” Jonathan says, taking her hand and swinging it between them. Nancy nods, glancing over at the kids, where Mike’s wrapping Will in a bear hug before giving Eleven a rather _memorable_ goodbye. Jonathan follows her gaze, chuckling a little. When he turns back, his eyes fall to her lips, and Nancy can feel him start to lean in. She braces herself— _c’mon, just one last time—_ but still ends up turning her head so his lips brush her cheek.

Jonathan pulls back. “Nance,” he says softly, brushing a lock of hair from her face.

She can’t bring herself to answer the questions in his eyes. “I’ll miss you,” she says instead. “Call me anytime, okay? I mean it. You’re my best friend, Jonathan, no matter where you’re living.”

He flinches a bit on the words _best friend,_ but he better get used to it quickly. They’ve already decided not to do long distance. _You’ve got enough on your plate,_ she’d said demurely, gazing at him from under her lashes, _I think it’s best if we both try for fresh starts, yeah?_ In the end, he’d agreed, but she could tell he kept hoping for her to relent.

Nancy wasn’t going to. For her part, she was just grateful for the excuse.

She’d gone over it a million times in her head. Searched to the depths of her heart and back again, wracked her brains for anyway she could find another answer, but in the end, it was simple: she didn’t love Jonathan.

How do you tell your boyfriend you don’t love him?

Turns out, that answer was simple, too: you don’t. You spend a month dodging his kisses and inventing reasons not to spend the night. You ask yourself what the _hell_ is wrong with you, and then you jump at the opportunity for a “natural” break up.

He never has to know. It’s better for everyone that way—except for Nancy, who for the life of her _still_ can’t figure out what went wrong.

She should love Jonathan. She _should._ He’s kind, and funny, and a perfect gentleman—hell, she even broke up with her last boyfriend for him, a move she’s regretting more and more as the months pass. How it ended with Steve—it was complicated. Or it seemed so at the time, even though she’s realizing that how she felt back then is uncomfortably similar to how she’s feeling now.

At the time, she’d assumed that the roadblock preventing her from loving Steve was borne from the guilt and trauma over Barb. That the horror of death irreversibly mingled with their first night together and made their relationship unsalvageable; that she needed to start over. With Jonathan.

Now, she’s not so sure.

Now—reaching into her mind for the white wedding she’d always fantasized about, the future she’d always expected—three kids, husband, house in the suburbs—a life built on a newer model of her mother’s—she only comes up with disgust.

For the first time, she wonders if the problem is just _her_. Fears that somewhere between stumbling over Barb’s corpse and watching nearly everyone in her life get tortured by monsters, something inside her snapped and tore until it was irreversibly broken.

And a part of her, that hopeless, ruined part, whispers that maybe she will never— _can_ never—love at all.

**Author's Note:**

> i found this in my docs and remembered the joy that is repressed lesbian homophobic nancy wheeler... on GOD we gon get her some good character growth bro.  
> thanks for reading!! kudos/comment to help me fight against the overwhelming entropic force and finish this


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